The South can be a spiritual and emotional place by nature.
It wraps you up in the language of grace and the blessing of hearts.
And I’ve gone through many seasons of both.
Sometimes people talk about God as though we’re all believers in the Divine, yet there is so much that I’ve seen and felt. I listen, regardless. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. I can though, move in and out of it as I need to. As much as that doesn’t seem to make sense, I get tangled up with you and your words. I get lost in your story and I want to know how.
I dwell in a community of people who believe in a lot of different things.
I feel their love shine on me the same.
They’re all working on those things. Figuring out how to raise their kids.
They are tired, but looking for meaning in the day to day.
We sit and eat as a way of oneness, as a way of sharing.
Equals, we are, sitting at the great big table.
Still, I find myself lost in it all.
I’ve found a great comfort in not knowing. That is the space that I dwell in.
I see your hearts, living with intention and moving in the ways you need to move. I remember it. I remember it for my own life. I feel how you love, and I still feel what it was like to move in certain ways.
We all kind of lose a bit here and there.
Most of us wish it was our weight. These damn bellies…a physical reminder that we’re all a little soft. I like to remind people that I’m built for comfort, not speed.
I suppose, as I remind myself to submit to a place while I am there, this is what I see.
There are times that the future freaks me out. I start thinking myself into someone, someone who doesn’t even exist yet. No wonder it’s so overwhelming to dwell in future things. It’s not who you are just yet.
We’re all slowly becoming.
I like that.
That’s a little like medicine, to me.
We have to give ourselves time. I heard someone once say that life is short, but that it’s also long. We have a lot of time to miss our mark and get back up.
I’m always talking about giving yourself time and space. To sit in your own presence and to dwell in it. Sometimes, I do this when I’m surrounded by piles of dirty dishes and smelly cooks. I’ve learned to do the humble work because there is some beauty in its simplicity.
I’ve seen a container be full and emptied and cleaned so many times.
I recognize myself in the same light.
A container, a vessel for something kind of holy and delicate.
I’ve lost it, and gained it back time and time again.
I will continue to do so,
and I will notice myself slowly becoming.
Because that’s a little like medicine to me.